


Dear Chaplain

by Ynnealay



Category: Catch-22 - Joseph Heller
Genre: Love Letters, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 16:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6814279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ynnealay/pseuds/Ynnealay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yossarian writes letters to the Chaplain from Sweden with words about how much he can't forget and who he never wants to. </p>
<p>  <em>Dear Chaplain,</em><br/><em>It is sunny here in Sweden. I miss you.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Chaplain

**Author's Note:**

> In certain parts of this fic, text will appear like this: 
> 
> This text is blacked out, like a government secret. Personally, I blame the CID man.
> 
> To read it, highlight it. Although, I tried to make it pretty clear what it said anyway. Also, I'm not sure what the formatting is doing, but if you the try to highlight the above text, it may not work. All I know is that it works in the fic.

_Dear Chaplain,_

Yossarian wrote,

_It is sunny here in Sweden. I found Orr, and we live together in a two-bedroom house about a block away from an IKEA. Orr annoys me constantly. He’s always fixing IKEA furniture that doesn’t need to be fixed, but at least the smug son of a bitch is alive. At least I’m alive. At least nobody talks to me here about bombing patterns or raising the missions. At least nobody here in Sweden is trying to kill me._

There were a lot of things Yossarian liked about neutral Sweden, the deserters’ paradise. The weather was fair and docile, generally bright but never too hot. It was beautiful— lots of decorative trees and quaint brick lined streets. The women were beautiful too, he supposed.

Yossarian didn’t think he was in love with any of them.

_I’m glad to be rid of Colonel Cathcart, and of Milo, and of Aarfy._

He wrote,

_There’s a lot of people I’m glad I don’t have to see anymore. In the end, I don’t think I miss any of those bastards._

He paused, pen hovering hesitantly above the paper, and then wrote,

_I miss you._

Then, he crossed the whole thing out, with long angry black strokes that were too thin.

\---------

_~~Dear Chaplain,~~ _

_~~It is sunny here in Sweden. I found Orr, and we live together in a two-bedroom house about a block away from an IKEA. Orr annoys me constantly. He’s always fixing IKEA furniture that doesn’t need to be fixed, but at least the smug son of a bitch is alive. At least I’m alive. At least nobody talks to me here about bombing patterns or raising the missions. At least nobody here in Sweden is trying to kill me.~~ _

_~~I’m glad to be rid of Colonel Cathcart, and of Milo, and of Aarfy. There’s a lot of people I’m glad I don’t have to see anymore. In the end, I don’t think I miss any of those bastards.~~ _

_~~I miss you.~~ _

\---------

A lot of the enlisted men were uncomfortable around the Chaplain, because they felt like they couldn’t say words like ‘ _son of a bitch’_ and ‘ _bastards_ ’ around him. The thought had never occurred to Yossarian until it was too late, but then the Chaplain never seemed to mind. He would only look at Yossarian with his willing eyes and soft smile, something concrete about him. It sometimes felt like the Chaplain was the only sane one besides himself.

Yossarian missed the Chaplain tragically.

_My dear Chaplain,_

Yossarian wrote and then immediately crossed out.

_A. T. Tappman,_

He wrote and then immediately crossed out.

_Dear Albert,_

No.

_To A. T. Tappman, the Chaplain_

No.

_Dearest—_

No.

_Dear Chaplain._

Yossarian wrote it again, deciding not to do anything fancy (he had never been to type of guy who cared about fancy things, unlike General Peckem).

_Dear Chaplain_ would do just fine. He traced over the words again, until they were dark and bled through the paper, then he realized the top of the page was already ruined, and he crossed out that, too.

\---------

_~~My dear Chaplain,~~ _

_~~A. T. Tappman,~~ _

_~~Dear Albert,~~ _

_~~To A. T. Tappman, the Chaplain,~~ _

_~~Dearest Ch~~ _

**_~~Dear Chaplain,~~ _ **

\---------

It was love at first sight. The first time Yossarian saw the chaplain he fell madly in love with him. It was the way he smiled, the way he moved, the way he looked down and blushed whenever Yossarian said anything. He was always kind, and always quiet, but never boring, and very sweet. He seemed like the only person on the whole damned island of Pianosa who cared if Yossarian lived or died.

And of course, there was no doubt that he was quite an attractive man.

_Dear Chaplain,_ Yossarian wrote, _You are quite an attractive man._

The Chaplain had a nice voice, and curved, sloped shoulders. As a friend, Yossarian would put his arm around the Chaplain sometimes, or touch him on the arm—things that couldn’t be construed in any way as a romantic gesture. But no matter how platonic his actions were, Yossarian wished they were not. He didn’t even want anything too far—nothing like the things he did with the whores of Rome—just hands intertwined, or to be able to call the Chaplain ‘ _dear’_ without it being the salutation of a letter. He knew this would never happen because while he certainly didn’t see himself as the monogamous type, he knew the Chaplain, a man of God, was.

_Dear Chaplain,_ Yossarian wrote, _I wish you didn’t have a wife_.

_Dear Chaplain,_ Yossarian wrote, _I could listen to you talk for hours._

_Dear Chaplain, I like you quite a lot._  

_Dear Chaplain, I love you._

Yossarian blacked out everything in rectangle, thick, clean strips from a marker that should have been employed in the letter-censoring wing of the hospital.

\---------

_Dear Chaplain,_  
_You are quite an attractive man._

_Dear Chaplain,_  
_I wish you didn’t have a wife_.

_Dear Chaplain,_  
_I could listen to you talk for hours._

_Dear Chaplain,  
I like you quite a lot. _  

_Dear Chaplain,  
I love you. _

\---------

Yossarian stopped writing letters for a while.

It had already been a month, and he doubted the Chaplain would even expect a letter from him at all. After all, he was supposed to be in hiding. Yossarian spent his days either complaining to, or helping Orr. If he was complaining, it would be because Orr was fixing a dresser that he was sure Orr broke himself just for something to do, if he was helping Orr, he’d be the one fixing the dresser, or he’d disinterestedly hold logs steady while Orr spray-painted them silver.

All the while, he thought of Albert Taylor Tappman. He felt very affectionate towards him. He felt protective over him, and yet the Chaplain was also someone he wanted to protect _him_. He was logical, and tolerant, and Yossarian loved him very much.

He used to know that at any chance he got, he would get out of the war and escape alive. Then, suddenly, a chance arose and all it would have taken was being a despicable person. Yossarian could have lived with that, if it meant he could go home. Then, suddenly there was this beautiful man standing at the foot of his bed, furrowed brows and soft frowns, caring if Yossarian was alive _and_ caring if Yossarian lived. That was all it took for Yossarian to question everything he had ever tried to do. Suddenly, he knew that running away was more dangerous than going home, but less dangerous than staying, and Yossarian knew that’s what he would do if only it would please the Chaplain. Whenever he started to wonder why he wasn’t on a flight back home, he would remind himself he was doing it in the name of the Chaplain. If the humble, sweet Anabaptist could stay on Pianosa and endure, Yossarian could go to Sweden and hide, as long as he knew his Chaplain was out there somewhere.

\---------

_Dear Chaplain,_

_Once I came back from a mission with my uniform covered in blood, and for the next few weeks I refused to wear it or anything else, and everything looked like war. I remember I saw you burying the man who died in my plane. I don’t think you saw me. When I saw you, you weren’t burying someone who had died in the war, you were burying someone who had died, and looking at you, I forgot about the war._

_I’m trying to forget about everything that happened on and around Pianosa, but it’s impossible to forget the time I spent with you. I’m thankful for that, at least. You are the one person on that entire island I might have stayed for. If you had asked me to stay, I might have. I might be insane, but then everybody else already is, maybe it’s time I joined in. Would you have come with me if I asked you? I wish you were here. You would like it. Maybe we could go out for drinks again, just me and you. Would you like that, Chaplain? I would love that very much. I would love you._

\---------

Yossarian went out to find a beautiful girl to go to bed with, but instead he ended up thinking about the Chaplain, walking down to the liquor store and getting drunk. He stumbled back to the house and wrote a letter. He thought maybe he would actually send this one. He had already figured out that a lingonberry exporting plane regularly departed from nearby and ended up crossing paths with M&M Enterprises. It would be a simple matter of slipping the letter into a crate… eventually it would get back to Pianosa. He would mark the letter plainly, “ _Chaplain Tappman_ ” and wouldn’t even sign it. The Chaplain would know who it was from.

Yossarian folded the paper over, and read it again and again, trying to convince himself to send it, and then trying to convince himself to throw it out. Read it again. Crumple it. Smooth it out. Read it again. His hands shook in a mixture of laughter and alcohol as he realized he’d read the letter more collective times than all the letters he’d censored incorrectly. In the hospital. Where he’d met the Chaplain. He remembered one letter he’d almost entirely blacked out… _Dear Mary,_ it had said. It was filled with sweet words and romantic confessions. Of course, whoever Mary was never read those words, because Yossarian had blacked them out. But they were still _there_ , weren’t they?

Yossarian made up his mind, blacked out the entire content of his letter, and then added a last sentence that he had written once before as a joke, but now he meant it. The letter left Sweden in a crate of lingonberries. He didn’t know if Milo used the berries for cooking or trading, and thus didn’t know if the letter would even make it back to Pianosa.

He hoped.

He didn’t think the Chaplain would ever read it.

He hoped.

\---------

_Dear Chaplain,_

_Once I came back from a mission with my uniform covered in blood, and for the next few weeks I refused to wear it or anything else, and everything looked like war. I remember I saw you burying the man who died in my plane. I don’t think you saw me. When I saw you, you weren’t burying someone who had died in the war, you were burying someone who had died, and looking at you, I forgot about the war._

_I’m trying to forget about everything that happened on and around Pianosa, but it’s impossible to forget the time I spent with you. I’m thankful for that, at least. You are the one person on that entire island I might have stayed for. If you had asked me to stay, I might have. I might be insane, but then everybody else already is, maybe it’s time I joined in. Would you have come with me if I asked you? I wish you were here. You would like it. Maybe we could go out for drinks again, just me and you. Would you like that, Chaplain? I would love that very much. I would love you._

_I yearn for you tragically, A. T. Tappman, Chaplain. I yearn for you tragically._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was hell to format, just so you all know. You know, I think I'm more proud of making this work skin than I am of this fic.


End file.
